The Fruit of the Vine
by suncityblues
Summary: It's been six months. Things don't change. "Things which are alike, in nature, grow to look alike." D18


Hi everyone, thank you for reading!

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You don't understand the look on his face.

You don't think he does either.

The two of you are sitting in his giant apartment, rented and retained especially for when he travels to Japan. He tells you it was cheaper to get this than to stay in a hotel but you have your doubts.

After all, you've never been in anywhere half as nice as this place. Your whole apartment could fit in his spotless, unused kitchen. And just the same, you know he has cuff-links more expensive than this building, maybe this whole town. Yet another thing to hate him for, you think.

But you don't really hate him. You just wish you did.

While you think this he is prattling on about nothing important. How his flight was, where he thought Kusakabe and Romario had gone for drinks. You don't respond because you don't care, aren't even listening, he knows that, he doesn't mind. It's all a game to take up space, make the room seem less empty, since you dislike most music; most of all the kind Dino puts on.

He doesn't seem serious now, but he is. It runs in his veins along with the blood and oxygen, unseen but driving him. He tries to make it less apparent with his silly gestures and grins but it's not real. Like a reflection of a reflection.

You wonder if she still thinks those smiles are genuine even after these six months. You stop thinking about it.

He's pouring wine and asking you a question.

"Do you want a glass?" echos through your half-consciousness.

You don't care. You don't reply, you know you don't have to; he's pouring you one anyway.

The view behind him is almost beautiful; he doesn't seem to notice. The sun setting on Namimori Shrine from high off in the city. A view worthy of how much the Cavallone must have paid. You push yourself further into the cushions of the couch. White leather. Expressionless, emotionless, almost impossible to stain. Perfect for a clumsy owner.

He is handsome now, or maybe he always was; you can't be sure which. He is not pretty or lovely or beautiful, but handsome, the way only a man can be.

The sun on his hair only proving to you which is more wonderful. Which you would rather bask in, run your fingers through. It makes you want to cut that blond mess off. Want to mar his perfect complexion, his soft brown eyes that watch you with that strange expression which makes you so uncomfortable.

He sits beside you. Hands you your glass. It means nothing. You don't even really want it, but you take a sip anyway. It's dry red wine; has a strong oaky taste you can't really find a word for. It's smoother than saké, and more pleasing to the eye. Colored romantically. Darker than blood, than lust, than the cherry-flavored lollipops you would get when you went to the doctor's office and didn't hit any of the nurses or make your mom cry.

You wonder if one day you will grow to like this strange drink. He's talking again.

"Kyouya, I'm glad you decided to come visit me, here."

He's smiling and shifting to look at you better.

You don't have anything to say to that so you just go with, "hn."

You didn't come here for any special reason, certainly not to be closer to him. You just didn't feel like going back to your apartment today. Didn't feel like crossing over to the bad part of town, climbing the eight floors to your three room apartment and watching your mom drink a weak imitation of what is in your hand now.

He tells you that tomorrow he'll fight you, when he isn't so jet-lagged. But tonight he just needs some time to relax. To get things straight.

You don't understand and you tell him as much. You've never been jet-lagged. Never even been been on a plane.

He laughs and ruffles your hair. You frown and tell him that if he touches you again you'll bite him to death.

It's some time before either of you speak again.

You're on your third glass, wordlessly refilled by Dino. You're a bit woozy and warm now. He's on his fifth.

His kiss tastes like wine.

You don't know who started it but before you even realize what's happening your shirt is being pealed from your back and his mouth is attached to the skin over your clavicle. He is good at this, even though his subordinates aren't in the room.

Somewhere in your head a voice is saying, he's older than you. He's married now. You shouldn't be doing this. You hate him, remember? Remember what happened last time?

But you want it. You want it so badly, you have for a long time. Since the last time, to be exact. You don't want anyone besides him doing this to you. You know that now. Maybe you knew it all along.

You watch him as he gets up off the couch, effectively dislodging your hands from inside his pants. He pulls you up a moment after that, roughly, like he's angry with you for some reason. Maybe he is. He's still wearing his wedding ring. You desperately want him to take it off but you think better of saying anything. You don't want him to stop. To remember.

As he throws you onto his bed and starts to pull off your pants, you feel disgusted with yourself. For doing this. For being here. For being so easily lead into something so utterly herbivoreic. You look at his ceiling, as white as the walls and the furniture. As plain and pure as the starched sheets you are going to stain tonight.

His mouth is on your prick and the time to think is over now.

When you wake up he's laying on top of you, one arm folded over your boney ribs and his head occupying the spot above your shoulder. His legs are tangled with your own. You're used to this. It's a tactic to keep you here all night. You wonder in he holds her like this. If he runs his fingers down the length of her now swollen belly the way he does your sides. A heavy, painful feeling makes its nest in the pit of your stomach at the idea.

You could kill her for doing this to you, but in the same breath you know it's not her fault.

If anyone is wrong here, it's you.

You don't know if you've ever blamed yourself for anything before but it doesn't feel good and you can't hit it so you're not sure how to make it go away.

You're barely nineteen, and he is almost thirty. He's got a kid on the way and a wife and a house outside San Gimignano with miles of dead-looking grape vines stretching out and no place for you.

And so why he is here, next to you, whispering, "I love you, I love you, I love you, ti amo, ti amo troppo" you don't know.

The feeling in your stomach creeps up to your chest making it hard to breathe, strangling your heart and your lungs. You feel like you're going to die. Like things are going to just collapse into themselves and take you with them. You wonder what a panic attack feels like, and you think you might find out if you continue to lay here and listen to this.

So you get up. He watches you from the bed, quietly, making no move to stop your or ask what is wrong. Pausing only to pour himself another glass of wine. You've stopped counting how much he's had.

How much you've had.

You can't find your school shirt so you just take one of his stupid tees. It is too big or maybe you are too small, you can't really be sure. You just want to leave. You don't care much anyway.

In a minute you're in the hall, waking Romario up, who had been fallen asleep outside the door. Things are clearer now. Colder, less confining.

He smiles, nods, asks you how you've been. He's used to seeing you storm out in the middle of the night; doesn't need or expect an answer, and even though he seems more disapproving now there is an air of noncommitment to his actions. Like he's seen worse. And he has.

You sit on the floor of the elevator as it goes down. You can't pinpoint how you feel. Not sad, not happy, like there a heavy weight is pinning you down, crushing your chest in. You don't know if this is love because you've never been in love before but you think it can't be this painful. Shouldn't be.

Surely something like that wouldn't hurt this much.

It's three in the morning, long past the last train, and you scowl because it will take at least an hour to get home at this rate. But no one is waiting up for you so it doesn't really matter, you know.

As you walk up the first flight of stairs to your apartment you regret wearing his shirt. Not looking harder for your own. You almost want someone to say, "who's is that?" when you go inside, though no one will, so you just pull it off, fully intending to throw it away.

But you don't.

That night when you try to sleep, you hold it tightly against your chest. Not trying to think about what that means, not trying to think at all.

You decide you will never talk to him again.

You know you will think this again tomorrow after you see him, and the next day and the next until he leaves you again.

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"_Things which are alike, in nature, grow to look alike."_

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I hope you all enjoyed it!

As always if anyone sees and typo's et cetera, feel free to point them out.

I've been wanting to write a KHR fic for ages. Just so you know, although I assume you all do, ti amo means "i love you" and troppo means "too much"

Also San Gimignano is in Tuscany, and yes, I know that mafie (that's the plural of mafia) are mainly a southern Italian thing but uh... it's really pretty there?


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